


The Pirate, The Thief and His Lover

by thearkwrites



Series: The Ugly Bug Ball [1]
Category: Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: M/M, Multiple Partners, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thearkwrites/pseuds/thearkwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saberhorn and his lovers have a good time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pirate, The Thief and His Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Because “Disgraceland” is inflating up to ridiculous proportions, and because _eeeh_ , why not?

This whole thing was nothing short of bizarre. And yet, Saberhorn had to admit, it was equally hot. He earnestly wished he could've thought of a more eloquent and better-sounding word than “hot”; it was too simplistic and banal a word to his audials. But, circumstances being what they were, “hot” would have to suffice. Still. Were Saberhorn to view the word through less affected lenses, the word was ideal in all its modesty.

Having Chop Shop beneath him was “hot”; having Chop Shop eagerly and vigorously eating out his sopping-wet valve while simultaneously playing with his spike was incredibly “hot”. Wrapping his lip-components Chop Shop's own spike was definitely “hot”, especially with all the wanton sounds escaping from the gestalt's intake and vibrating pleasantly against Saberhorn's tender valve walls. The sight of their combined transfluids soaking the berth was “hot”. The feel of Chop Shop kissing his anterior node and delicately nipping it with his fangs was “hot”. Saberhorn sucking and slobbering all over the large spike like a well-trained whore was and made Saberhorn feel embarrassingly “hot”, even more so with—

“Saberhorn.” Came the authoritative voice of the Minicon.

He released his glossa's hold on Chop Shop's spike and focused on the tiny mech before him. Normally, he wouldn't consider Fixit to be “hot”. “Adorable” and “Delectable”, yes, but not “hot”. Today was different.

Today, Fixit didn't just _look_ “hot”, he _was_ “hot”. The blaze in his optics. The lopsided smirk. The domineering air about him. All of it made the former pirate's spark throb in its chamber. This was the side of Fixit that none but he and Chop Shop had the privilege of seeing, and the privilege of bedding.

_Truly, defection has its privileges._

Fixit suddenly raised his servo close to Saberhorn's faceplate. The wide digits clicked together once then twice. “Would you kindly?”

Saberhorn cooed appreciatively. “It would be a pleasure, lad.” He opened his intake to slather the Minicon's servos in oral fluid. The showman in him made it a point to accompany his motions with the appropriate noises. His gentle suckling and moaning earned Saberhorn a few encouraging strokes on his cheek. He opened his intake wider, allowing Fixit to push in even more of his moist servo between the plump lip-components.

“Oy! What's going on down there?” Chop Shop cried out and wriggled his bulky frame, not too keen on being unable to see what was going on.

“In a moment, Chop Shop.” Fixit replied in a sing-song tone. “I'm just having Saberhorn prep me up.”

“ _Oh_.”

After a moment, Fixit retracted his servo. “That will do. Thank you, Saberhorn.”

“Always a delight to be of service.” Saberhorn answered with a wink.

“Oy, what's happenin', Widge?” Chop Shop asked impatiently.

Fixit reached for the gestalt's valve before he answered. “What's happening is,” He clasped his digits together and rubbed the puffy valve lips with his digit-tips. His dry servo was resting on Chop Shop's inner thigh, no doubt to help Fixit maintain his balance. “we're finally getting this blight—trite—” Saberhorn slapped the side of Fixit's helm. “—NIGHT—thank you, Saberhorn—started.”

“ 'Bout time.” Was all Chop Shop managed before his voice broke into a strangled moan.

Saberhorn watched the scene unfold before him with awe. Fixit was—somehow, by some small miracle—pushing the entirety of his ovoid servo into the gestalt's valve. Chop Shop was—somehow, by yet another small miracle—able to accommodate and then acclimate to the Minicon limb currently plumbing the depths of his most-used port. Fixit didn't go in gently, and Chop Shop appeared to like it that way. The little mech pumped his arm in and out of the other's channel in a steady pattern, its passage eased by the transfluids amply dribbling out of the valve; the grace and efficiency of his motions spoke of skills honed by countless joors of practice. If Chop Shop's squeals of delight—and inexplicable lack of fear or pain—were anything to go by, that would've been the case. The idea made Saberhorn “hot”; just the thought of Chop Shop allowing Fixit to use his body in such an obscene manner, surrendering to the wiles of another almost completely...Saberhorn felt his own valve getting wetter and clamping down on nothing, and his own spike getting harder and remaining untouched.

Unsurprising. Chop Shop was too lost in the throes of pleasure to return to Saberhorn. Unfortunate. Rather than allowing disappointment to get the better of him, Saberhorn took action.

“Oy,” Chop Shop gasped when he saw and felt Saberhorn shift above him. “What do you think you're—”

“Do be quiet and just enjoy the ride.”

Saberhorn deep-throated Chop Shop, smoothly and in one go. The angle presented a bit of a challenge to him, but the former pirate accepted the challenge head on. He kept on going until he felt the head of Chop Shop's spike hit the back of his throat. Much like the younger mechs surrounding him, Saberhorn too had had practice. Taking a long invent of air, he began to bob his helm up and down the length of the spike, leaving long, glistening trails of oral fluid as he did. He switched between grazing the stiff protoflesh with his sharpened dentae and massaging between the ridges with his glossa, making sure to leave no part of the spike untouched and unloved by his mouth.

“Solus Prime!” Saberhorn heard Fixit squeak.

Were he given the chance, Saberhorn would've given the Minicon another wink. But with Chop Shop suddenly and liberally overloading, it was not forthcoming. Saberhorn gagged a little when he felt the other's transfluids shoot directly into his intake. A bit of it seeped out of the corners of his lip-components, but he allowed no more than that. The rest of Chop Shop's load was swallowed without wasting another drop. Thick, tart, perfect. His personal preference for bots of the younger set had yet to fail him. Finally, _finally_ , Saberhorn disengaged from the red mech when he was certain that he had all of the transfluids settled towards the bottom of his fuel tank. A lovely feeling, really, and one that Saberhorn hadn't experienced since his imprisonment aboard the _Alchemor_ and its hollow halls.

The sounds of a wet pop and rush of fluid caught his attention. Fixit was done pounding Chop Shop with all of his fist-acular—it was a silly word, yes, but to Saberhorn it seemed apt—fury. Now, he was cleaning the remains of their tryst by way of glossa. 

Saberhorn tutted. “Amateurs, the lot of you.” Two of his digits stroked the used, wet entrance. It felt overly loose and, when those digits edged past the rim, gave in with little resistance. Saberhorn moved his digits in a scissoring action and relished the breathless groans coming from Chop Shop. “Is that all you've got?” He asked as he brought his transfluid-coated servo to his intake and lapped up the clear liquid streaks.

Chop Shop responded for him and his mate. “Nah, we're just getting started.” He said with shaky breaths. “Innit right, Widge?”

Fixit finished licking the transfluids off his servo. “Well, yes. If Saberhorn here wants to...”

Saberhorn squeezed the base of Chop Shop's spike. Now _this_ was more like it. His wings fluttered in joy.

“Oh, I thought you'd never ask. But would you mind if I upped the ante a bit?”

“How?” Asked Chop Shop.

Saberhorn gave his answer by fluidly rising off of Chop Shop and standing just above the ant-con's interface array. Firmly planting his pedes on the sides of Chop Shop's thighs, Saberhorn slowly began to lower himself onto the still-hard, still-twitching spike. He let out a small gasp when he felt the broad tip poke the entrance of his rear port, yet he didn't stop or back out. A few sensual sways of his hips and Saberhorn was soon riding Chop Shop with his aft, the entrance stretching to its limits as Saberhorn kept on going until he felt the heat of pelvic plating directly against his own.

“Aah, _there we are_.” Saberhorn sighed in bliss. He glanced back at the stunned Chop Shop and then looked at Fixit invitingly. “Come now then, lad. Back to it!” He said as he leaned back and spread his valve lips with his digits.


End file.
